


the same thing we do every night, Gavia, try to take over the world (of publishing)

by slavetohiscat



Category: Big Bang Press RPF, Fandom RPF
Genre: Alternative Universe - Witches' Coven, Crack, F/F, Glasgow, New York, abuse of male celebrities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slavetohiscat/pseuds/slavetohiscat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought they wanted to take over the world (of publishing), but all they really wanted was each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the same thing we do every night, Gavia, try to take over the world (of publishing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Febricant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/gifts).



> I'm so sorry.

It was a cold, cruel sunset. The ravens of Manhattan circled restlessly over an abandoned building site, unknowing of why they were drawn to that spot, unknowing of the terrible evil that lay beneath the earth there.

Grandwitch Morgueana D’Avis stirred her cauldron with unwavering command, casting long shadows along the walls of her underground lair. A drop more eye of newt and her spell was complete. The surface of the bubbling potion cleared and the face of Gavia the Grim appeared, projected magically from her Glaswegian Ghost House.

"You'll have seen the new _Captain America trailer_?" she said.

"CROL," said Morgan. "Such feels! And by the way, may I comment that your new nose wart is exceedingly stylish? But we mustn't get distracted! How go preparations for the Reanimation?"

"All is on course. The blood banks are almost full."

"Almost full isn't full now, Gav, is it?"

Gavia shifted guiltily.

"We must exhort the Sisterhood to keep donating," Morgan concluded, nostrils flaring with determination. "I picked up a cluster of particularly juicy virgins in the street today that we can use as an incentive. And what of the media?"

"They have been quelled."

"I knew I could count on you. Now there is nothing standing between us... and taking over the world (of publishing)!" Morgan's face lit up with an evil light as she cackled merrily.

Gavia relaxed back into her skull-and-crossbones armchair and took a sip from her pint glass of Buckfast. The business of the cauldron-call over, they were free to return to more important matters. "So _Captain America_. There's a screencap that could totally be used as a doge meme.”

“The one with the eyebrows?”

The young witches laughed maniacally together, a sound which sent countless rats scurrying away from Morgan’s cauldron, anxious to get away from the tectonic, grating sound.

The Sisters set about the serious business of planning how they would rule the world (of publishing) when their time came. A key part of this plan was the establishment of an Office of Much Doge, which would release doge memes on a daily basis for the entertainment and edification of the masses. There was also talk of travel on pallets borne by teams of OTPs, but it was agreed that that was a waste of a good OTP and they should probably get more minor film stars to carry them around.

The night wore on, but neither witch noticed or cared.

*

Morgan made her way systematically around the Animation Chamber, checking the drips that linked the prone forms of the three Authors to the giant blood bath that hung high overhead. She was sure all provisions were in readiness, but the Sisterhood of the Big Bang had come too far now to leave even the smallest detail to chance. Tonight was the night. Tonight was the Winter Solstice.

All over America, witches of the Sisterhood gathered around their elm and ebony bonfires, dancing with sensuous abandon. They channeled their power into the flames, focusing it like a magnifying glass against the sun onto Big Bang’s New-York headquarters. Morgan could feel their magic against her skin, building up, nearly ready to bring the Authors to life.

A rumble of thunder signalled Gavia’s arrival at the lair. Morgan creaked slowly up the stairs to let her friend in, impatient to begin the business of the evening. Life would be so much easier when she had a minor film star to carry her everywhere. Possibly Idris Elba, he looked like he’d have stamina and speed as well as dignity.

"Your doorbell is totally snazzy!" said Gavia.

"I know, right?! Thought it would make you feel at home."

“I love what you’ve done with all these cobwebs. Reminds me of the Hale house.”

Morgan waved Gavia The Grim into her underground lair, and set about finding a vase of water for the bouquet flowers Gavia had brought with her. “It was rather windy over the Atlantic,” said Gavia, by way of explanation for the flower’s rather windswept appearance. “I should’a brought some Bucky instead.”

Morgan showed Gavia into her living room, where she had laid out two heavy-duty protective outfits. “You never know how the Authors will react to being Animated,” she said, and the two witches exchanged glances, an unspoken acknowledgement of the seriousness of the Magic they were about to attempt. “We have forty minutes still before midnight.”

While they were changing into the heavy plague doctor-like robes, conversation turned to matters less morbid. In particular, the recent recasting of Carlos in _Night Vale_ , and the announcement of the new West-End play based on _Harry Potter_. Both agreed diversity was A Good Thing and that the play was likely to be Highly Depressing. It was good to see each other in person, for only the second time. Cauldron calls didn’t really capture the spontaneity and vim of a real-life conversation between Sisters.

“We should probably go down to the Animation Chamber and check everything is ready,” said Morgan, still smiling from Gavia’s impression of Derek Hale eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s nearly half midnight, we should get going.”

“Nearly- Gav, we were supposed to do the Animation at midnight!” The witches exchanged panicked glances.

*

The floor of the Animation Chamber was covered in blood.

The corpse of an Author hung off its trolley, half-animated, jerking at random as sparks of magic flew from its neck to its dismembered head on the floor below. Another Author had exploded entirely. The third Author was mysteriously missing. (Morgan was later to find it, by following a rather nasty stench that had been growing for a couple of days, jammed into a ventilation shaft. She guessed it had crawled there in a bid for freedom during its few moments of life.)

Neither Gavia nor Morgan were to remember what happened in the next few minutes, as both blacked out - Gavia from the thought of having to write all those fucking Kickstater backer updates again, Morgan simply from excessively high levels of livid. I will refrain from describing the form their ire took, lest any of my readers have delicate constitutions, but let it be said that there are no longer any ravens in New York.

The witches regrouped in Time Square, sitting invisibly on top of a billboard advertising something with Tom Hiddleston in it.

“What are we going to do?” said Gavia.

“We need the Sisterhood’s support to gather blood and bodyparts to have a second attempt.”

“But how can they trust us again after this catastrophe?”

“Someone has to take the fall for this…” Morgan’s face had taken on a serious cast. “It’s been fun and everything, but when push comes to shove, we’re bad for each other, Gav.”

“And by the way, we should totally be getting tickets to see this play Tom Hiddleston is in.”

“You see! Always changing the subject! Always distracting me from achieving my potential as the Grandwitch of an Enormous Slave Empire (of publishing)!”

“Morgan, don’t-” But before Gavia could complete her plea, Morgan had given her a mighty shove and sent her plummeting towards the ground of Times Square below.

Gavia, shocked, let herself freefall for a moment before pulling herself back onto her broom. She kicked viciously at the heads of a few passers by as she swooped up to a level with Morgan again.

“I’ll go see Hiddles on my own then,” she said, and flew away, towards the Atlantic and her dominium of Scotland, leaving behind a heavily breathing Morgan and some bemused tourists, wondering what strange force had knocked them to the ground.

By the time Gavia got back to the Glaswegian Ghost House, Morgan had sent out a cauldron circular blaming the accident on Gavia, announcing the split, barring Gavia from the Sisterhood, and inviting everyone else to join her on a Coven trip to the Tom Hiddleston play, for which she had, apparently, bought every single remaining ticket.

Gavia checked, and indeed there were no tickets left. She cried for three and a half hours.

*

A year later, and the dark of the Winter Solstice slid its way across America once more. New bonfires were lit, new blood let, new enchantments cast, and three new Authorial Cadavers began to twitch on their tables in Morgan’s Animation Chamber.

Alone as she channeled the power of the Sisterhood, Morgan rocked back and forth in the magical current, swelling to twice her normal size, her evil laughter echoing through the underbellies of New York. It was quite ticklish, in her defence.

With a final frisson of power, the Animation was complete. At last, the Authors stood to attention before Morgan, Grand Witch Morgueana D’Avis, vibrating with power.

“What is your command?” the cadavers chanted in unison, electrical sparks shooting from their hair and fingers.

“Authors of the Sisterhood of the Big Bang, you are totally commanded to write original novels, preferably including poc or queer characters and/or catering to the interests and concerns of the wider fandom community.” Morgan pulled a hidden lever and with a mechanical whirring three mechanical typewriters descended on chains from the ceiling. “Also, I would like one of you - yes, you, with the six-inch eyebrows - to write a movie about Moby Dick starring Ben Wishaw. Now... to work!”

It was a night that students of book history were to return to countless times, for it was the night that finally tipped the balance of the world (of publishing) in favour of the Sisterhood of the Big Bang.

*

Tyler Hoechlin grunted heavily as he bore the Imperial Chaise Longues into the Grand Throne Room, exchanging tired glances with Dylan O’Brien, who was carrying the other side and looked as though he was about to collapse.

“It was only four miles,” said Morgan impatiently from her topside perch, “I don’t know why you have to be so crolley about it. You can set me down here.”

“Sorry ma’am,” the boys chorused. “Not far at all ma’am.”

“I knew I should have got Idris Elba,” said Morgan under her breath. Then, louder, “Now then, what have we here?”

Sister Nat stepped forward from the throng and bowed deeply to her Grandwitch. “Faber & Faber have requested your permission to publish another book, milady.”

“Another book! Goodness, didn’t we grant them permission to publish a book last year?”

“You did indeed, milady, but-”

“And now they want to publish yet another book! The ingratitude. We are not a charity, Nat.”

“This one is different, milday.”

“Oh? Do tell. But first-” Morgan snaps her fingers “-Tyler, darling, once you’ve finished feeling sorry for yourself, do go and fetch Channing Tatum and Daniel Radcliffe for me will you? I have plans for a new crossover fic and I want to check if they’re physically possible. Right then, go on, Nat.”

Nat cleared her throat nervously as Tyler rushed out of the room. “The book is a compilation of sarcastic comments about Steven Moffat edited by... Gavia the Grim.”

An audible gasp rose from the Throne Room.

“HOW VERY DARE YOU SPEAK HER NAME TO ME!” cried Morgan. “Dylan, take her away.”

Dylan leapt up from the small heap behind the Imperial Chaise Longues into which he had collapsed, and ushered Annette out of the room, apologising for manhandling her as he went.

Silence reigned over the Throne Room, no one brave enough to break it and risk the wrath of the Grandwitch.

Presently Tyler returned with Channing Tatum and and Daniel Radcliffe in tow. Channing was in a rather dorky pair of striped pajamas and looked like he was still half asleep, poor thing.

“Most Glorious Grandwitch D’Avis,” they choruses sleepily, prompted by a poke in the ribs from Tyler, “what is your command?”

“Sorry boys, I’ve lost interest.”

Daniel and Channing exchanged surprised glances. Something was seriously wrong.

Morgan ordered Sterek to carry her back to her lair, where she curled up in a bearskin rug and listened to indie vinyl late into the night.

*

Gavia stood back from her wall, paintbrush akimbo, and admired the past hour’s work with no small amount of immodest pride. “That is one seriously fucking awesome toad slash owl mural,” she said to herself, while her phone floated over her shoulder and took a SnapChat of its own accord. She scrolled through her contacts selecting everyone, then scrolled back again to uncheck GrandwitchMorgueana, who would not appreciate or indeed be worthy of her art.

That was when the doorbell rang. Gavia leapt into action, kicking her copy of _Mein Kampf_ under her bed, donning her battlecloak, flying down the stairs, and withdrawing her scimitar from the hatstand. (For the benefit of those not familiar with Glasgow, let it be noted that these are sensible precautions.)

“I am TRYING to DO some ART here,” bellowed Gavia, flinging her front door open and pointing her scimitar into the face of her inopportune visitor.

To her credit, Morgan didn’t even blink. “I wanted to talk about your book,” she said, coolly.

“Go troll yourself,” said Gavia, and slammed the door in Morgan’s face. Moments later she flung it open again. “Is that Tom Hiddleston there behind you?”

“Yes. I had him prepare a one-man Midsummer Night’s Dream for you.”

“You’d better come in.”

*

Morgan scraped the bottom of her takaway box hungrily. “You were right, this buckfast curry is ridic amazing.”

Gavia accepted this praise with a wry smile, indicating to Tom Hiddleston that he should finish up her foot massage and leave the two of them alone. “That was a good performance, by the way,” she said kindly. He beamed as he bowed his way out of the Ghost House’s drawing room.

“So Morgan,” said Gavia, “I’m going to accept you making Tom Hiddleston into my personal slave as an apology for throwing me out of the Sisterhood, partly because whatever sad loser is writing this is clearly eager to hasten the end of this story. But I have one question for you: why? What made you change your mind? I thought I was too much of a distraction.”

“Well,” said Morgan, moving closer, “I thought, what’s the point of being able to make Tom Hardy and Joseph Gordon-Levitt wrestle in jello-”

“Jelly, you mean?”

“-jello, if you don’t have someone as wonderful as you to crol about it with?”

The two sisters embraced.

Over in the kitchen, Tom Hiddleston, who was busily occupying himself with the washing up, felt a violent wave of magical energy through him. He almost dropped a plate.

“And anyway, I’ve taken over the world (of publishing) now, so it doesn’t much matter if I get distracted,” continued Morgan.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still sorry.
> 
> By the way, Buckfast curry is real: http://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/local-news/hamilton-takeaways-buckfast-curry-big-2429341 Read it and weep, doubters.


End file.
